


Breaking Point

by jehanjoly (orphan_account), kjack89, satb31



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Swearing, Tiny bit of Angst, Very brief implied sexual content, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jehanjoly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89, https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis are bowling for charity while Enjolras pines for Grantaire, Courf pines for Jehan in all the wrong ways, and the rest really just want to beat the National Guard team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tumblr post](http://sashaatthebarricade.tumblr.com/post/53359031849/savage-antinous-les-miserables-au-where-les). Pretty much exactly what you'd expect from a Bowling AU.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: we don't own them, we just borrow them to dress them up in bad bowling clothes and shoes because why not. Any typos are solely our own.

Enjolras coolly surveyed the team gathered in front of him. “Alright, men,” he said sternly, “this is make or break time. We must not allow the enemy of justice to prevail, not while we have strength left in our bodies and breath left in our lungs.”

A snort sounded from his right, and he turned to glare at Grantaire, who was already nursing a beer. “It’s _bowling_ , Enj,” Grantaire chuckled. “I’d hardly call the opposing team our ‘enemy’.”

Enjolras’s glare deepened, and he snapped, “This is for charity and I am trying to get our team mentally prepared for the challenge ahead.”

Grantaire grinned and raised a beer in salute. “To the challenge of bowling, then.”

As Enjoras’s face grew progressively redder, Joly leaned over to ask Jehan in a whisper, “Does Enjolras realize we have more than the regulation number of team members?”

Jehan patted his knee. “You know, I probably wouldn’t mention it to him.”

In the meantime, Enjolras had returned to his speech, finishing by asking, “Does anyone have any questions?”

From the back, Marius raised a shaking hand. “Um, whose idea was this again?”

In unison, nearly everyone groaned and said, “Courfeyrac’s.”

The man in question looked affronted. “Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time,” he protested. “Had I known Enjy was going to go all dictator on us—”

“At least if Enjy had been the dictator, he would have remembered to order bowling shirts for all of us,” Bossuet said from the corner, a figure all in black amid his friends’ fire engine red shirts.

“Enjy probably would have spelled my name right, too,” Feuilly said, pointing at the embroidery on the front of his shirt, where “Fueilly” was spelled out in black letters.

“I spelled it out on the phone three times,” Courfeyrac spluttered. “I was lucky they got ‘Courfeyrac’ right.”

“Hey, at least you don’t clash with the rest of the team, Bossuet,” Grantaire said, taking another swig of his beer. “Plaid pants, Jehan? This is bowling, for Christ’s sake, not golf.”.

Combeferre sighed in exasperation. “Enough, guys. Let’s get started.”

Enjolras, in the meantime, had picked up his bowling ball and settled himself into position to bowl first. From where he sat, Grantaire called out, “If you need any help, Apollo, I’m more than willing.”

Turning to glare at him, Enjolras seethed, “I do not need any help, and stop calling me Apollo.”

Grantaire just raised an eyebrow at him. “Then maybe your shirt shouldn’t say ‘Apollo’ on it.”

Enjolras’s glare switched to Courfeyrac, who looked unfazed by its intensity. “I already had words with Courfeyrac over it,” he said through clenched teeth, “and he claims that there was a mix-up with the order. That does not mean that you have permission to call me that.”

With that said, he turned to bowl, sending the ball down so hard that it managed to bounce out of the gutter…and into the other gutter. The look on his face was enough to stop any of Les Amis from laughing at him, save for Grantaire, who gave a low chuckle. “Like I said, Enjy, the offer for help still stands.”

Then he drained his beer and sauntered in the direction of the bar as Enjolras stared after him, face as red as his bowling shirt.

Combeferre broke the awkward silence. “Jehan, you’re next.”

The poet picked up his ball, kissed it for luck, and stepped onto the alley. He swung his left hand back gracefully and sent the ball down the lane with just the right amount of spin, knocking all the pins down for a strike.

As his friends applauded, Jehan took a little bow. “It’s all in the wrist,” he said with a shrug, moving to sit next to Joly on the bench, who greeted him with a kiss on the lips.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes at the sight of his ex-lover with his new boyfriend. “My turn,” he said, sauntering up to the alley and grabbing his ball. He barely looked at the pins before he lobbed his ball down the alley. The ball hit the alley with a thud, and rolled down the lane — for another strike.

Courfeyrac was initially surprised — then grinned, inordinately pleased with himself.

“Nicely done,” came a voice from the adjacent lane, where their competition, the team from the National Guard, was bowling.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said. The voice belonged to the other team’s captain, a dark-haired man with an impressive mustache. “I’m Courfeyrac, by the way,” he said, glancing back to see if Jehan was watching. “Maybe we can get a drink when this is over?”

Before the other man could answer, Enjolras’s voice boomed out over the alley. “No fraternizing with the enemy, Courf.”

Courf sulked his way back to the group. “Thanks, Enjy. You really know how to help a guy out.”

They continued bowling until Combeferre finished his turn with an impressive spare and looked around for Grantaire. “It’s Grantaire’s turn,” he said, sighing slightly. “I don’t suppose anyone has seen him?”

Enjolras scowled from his seat, where he had been flipping through the news on his phone. “Typical,” he snapped, his shoulders tensing in the way they did whenever Grantaire had done something particularly irritating.

Before he could continue in whatever rant he had been planning, Grantaire returned, full beer in hand, looking remarkably unconcerned by anything, especially the red hue of Enjolras’s face. “My turn, is it?” he asked easily, grabbing a bowling ball and sending it down the lane for a strike, all while taking a lengthy gulp of beer. He didn’t look at all surprised by the strike, though he did raise his beer in mock-salute to the look on Enjolras’s face, before sitting next to Courfeyrac and slipping him a piece of paper. “Here.”

“What’s this?” asked Courfeyrac, picking up the piece of paper cautiously.

Without looking away from Enjolras - who had somehow managed to throw his bowling ball so hard it bounced into a completely different lane, still ending up in the gutter - Grantaire muttered, “I got the number of the mustachioed man you were eyeing earlier.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him. “How in the world did you manage that?”

Shrugging, Grantaire took another sip of beer. “I promised to go out with his friend. The dark-haired one over there, flexing his muscles and looking inordinately pleased with himself?”

Carefully looking over, without making it seem like he was looking, Courfeyrac assessed the man in question, whistling under his breath. “Damn, Taire. Well done. Thank God for the end of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, am I right?”

Grantaire just shrugged again and drained his beer. “I prefer blonds.” Then he grinned, the same sardonic, easy grin he always wore, and clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder. “But for you, I’m willing to sacrifice.”

“I appreciate your ‘sacrifice’,” said Courfeyrac dryly, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, though. Seriously.”

Grantaire’s smile twisted wryly and he muttered, “I live to serve.”

Courfeyrac didn’t hear him, distracted by the sight of Jehan getting up to take his turn again. Jehan looked back at Joly, both of them laughing at some private joke, before turning and bowling with a graceful flick of his wrist. The ball curled down the lane, knocking down everything but the 10 pin.

Jehan turned to face his friends, his mouth forming a pout. Courfeyrac desperately wanted to go and kiss him.

Jehan expertly converted the spare, then returned triumphantly to the group. “I’m on a roll tonight,” he said, looking directly at Grantaire. “If you’ll pardon the pun.”

“Are you trying to trash talk me, Jehan?’ Grantaire asked.

Jehan just shrugged, expression innocent. “Maybe. Don’t I usually kick your ass when we bowl?”

“You do this often?” Bahorel chimed in from where he sat at the edge of the group, eyeing the National Guardsmen warily as they noisily celebrated another strike.

“We used to come here every Thursday night for a while,” Jehan volunteered. “Grantaire had his eye on a bartender who used to work here, so we’d come over here and bowl a couple of strings. Or at least, I would bowl a couple of strings, while Taire—” Jehan trailed off, noticing that Enjolras was no longer looking at his phone, but was listening intently to their conversation.

“I bowl better when I’m shitfaced,” Grantaire said, glancing over at Enjolras. “‘Ferre, do I have time to get another drink?”

Combeferre looked at him sternly from the scorer’s table. “Not really.”

“Right, then,” Grantaire said. “I’ll be back,” he said, sauntering off. He clapped Bahorel on the shoulder as he passed. “Come with me?”

Bahorel looked around, noticing that the muscle-bound Guardsman who Grantaire had agreed to go on a date with was also heading toward the bar. “Yeah, mate — I’m keeping an eye on these guys. Not after last year.”

In the meantime, Courfeyrac had managed to knock down six pins with his first ball — but sent the second ball into the gutter with a thud. He looked over at the Guardsman with the mustache — who had just knocked down a powerful strike — and grinned.

“Nice form, there, sir,” he said, raising an eyebrow at him before he went back to his seat.

Joly was next in the bowling order. He stood up and turned to Jehan pleadingly. “Help me?”

Jehan laughed and walked up to the lane with Joly, who stood there awkwardly cradling the ball in his arms, “Well, you can start by putting your fingers in the holes, Jolllly,” Jehan said gently.

“I did that the last time, and I think I broke my index finger,” Joly said, holding it up.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jehan assured him, kissing his finger and then kissing him on the nose. He positioned Joly just behind the foul line, then stood behind him. “Now just bring your arm back, bend your knees, and throw it.”

Joly obeyed, sending the ball down the alley slowly. The ball wound its way down the center of the alley at an excruciating pace, gently knocking down six pins.

“Yes!” Joly said, hugging Jehan with a smile on his face. He repeated the process with his second ball — sending it right down the middle again, missing all of the remaining pins.

“We’ll make a bowler out of you yet,” Jehan said, beaming with pride.

Enjolras sat down next to Combeferre, who looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Can I help you?” Combeferre asked, though not unkindly.

Shrugging, Enjolras started to say something, then stopped, then started again, then stopped. Finally, he scratched the back of his neck and said, “It’s about…” before trailing off.

It took all of Combeferre’s effort to not roll his eyes. “I am a great many things, Enjolras, but despite thirteen years of being your best friend, I am not actually psychic—” ignoring the fact that Combeferre knew _exactly_ what was on Enjolras’s mind “—so if you want to talk to me about something, you’re going to need to use your words.”

Had it been Courfeyrac with which Enjolras had chosen to have this conversation, there would have been a video taken (and subsequently posted online) of the way Enjolras gaped at him and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but Combeferre was nothing if not a mostly considerate friend, so instead he let Enjolras gather his thoughts. Enjolras finally muttered, ‘It’s nothing,” before asking, clearly changing the subject, “How are we doing?”

Combeferre looked down at the scorecard. “We’re up from last year,” he reported, “but it seems that the National Guard team is up as well. We need Grantaire and Jehan to both keep bowling as well as they’ve been, and if Courf can pull himself together, and if you can maybe bowl something other than a gutterball…”

“I _am_ trying,” said Enjolras, just a hint of petulance in his voice, “which I realize makes it all the worse, but…I just keep get distracted.”

The last part he said stiffly, as if daring Combeferre to inquire, but Combeferre learned long ago to not bother playing that game unless he wanted to be subjected to a twenty minute rant about Grantaire (that would start with how much he pissed Enjolras off and culminate in Enjolras espousing Grantaire’s virtues, and wishing fervently that Grantaire could just see it, could just apply himself, or at least stop being so incredibly argumentative, and once, just once, had involved Enjolras muttering something about how pretty Grantaire’s eyes were - neither Combeferre nor Enjolras had ever mentioned that moment). These were Enjolras’s issues to work out with Grantaire, not with him, so Combeferre merely shrugged and said, “Maybe you should go to the bar and get yourself something to drink.” At Enjolras’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged again and said, “From what I hear, it makes it a bit easier to relax and not get so, uh, distracted.”

Enjolras just frowned. “I’m not doing _that_ badly,” he insisted.

It was Combeferre’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Enjolras. “You bowled a zero in the last frame.”

“Well what did you bowl?” asked Enjolras indignantly, a faint blush just tinging his cheeks.

Combeferre swept the scorecard away from Enjolras’s prying eyes and told him primly, “I will have you know that I managed to pick up a spare last frame, so you have no grounds to stand on here.” After a moment, he added, “Look, I don’t particularly care how you choose to make yourself less distracted, but if you want us to have a chance at winning this year, you’re going to have to do something.”

Enjolras just let out a huff and pulled out his cellphone, scrolling through his Twitter feed, pausing on an instagram picture Grantaire had just tweeted of his beer, tagged “#thereisbutonecertainty #myfullglass”, and Combeferre tactfully chose not to draw attention to the way Enjolras’s grip tightened on his phone.

Over at the bar, Grantaire had just tucked his phone back into his pocket and picked up his beer to raise it for a toast with Bahorel. “Slainte,” he said, knocking the plastic cups together and taking a long swig.

Bahorel took a sip of his beer, but he was busy frowning at the National Guardsman at the bar. “Did I hear you tell Courfeyrac you agreed to go out with that guy?” he asked Grantaire, who merely shrugged.

“Perhaps. Why, what do you care?” Grantaire asked, frowning slightly as he took another sip. Then he waggled his eyebrows at Bahorel. “Unless you’ve decided to, ah, switch teams as they say, in which case, let me be the first to offer you welcome.”

Bahorel punched him in the ribs, and not very gently at that. “Ha fucking ha,” he growled. “No, I just actually remember last year, unlike you, who I think ended up passed out in the bathroom by the eighth frame. They almost started some shit with us, and I had to beat a guy up.”

Grantaire nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, is that what you’re calling that? Because I may not remember the fight, but I sure as hell remember your black eye and the bruises and the way you bitched and moaned for two weeks afterward…”

He tried to duck out of the way of Bahorel’s next punch but failed, and as he was massaging his ribs and gasping, Bahorel said, “A) Fuck you. B) Watch yourself, Grantaire. I’m not one to look after anyone, but you’re gonna end up regretting it if you do something stupid.”

With that said, he grabbed his beer and headed back to their lane, while Grantaire frowned, still massaging his ribs, and tried desperately not to meet the eyes of the guy at the bar while also trying not to look for Enjolras. Grantaire sighed deeply, made a face, and took another swig of his beer before heading after Bahorel.

“My turn?” Bahorel asked Combeferre as he stalked past, not waiting for the answer. Bahorel picked up his ball, made his approach, and sent the ball violently down the alley for a noisy strike. The National Guardsmen stopped and gaped at him as he strode back to his team.

“What the fuck are you looking at?’ he asked, glaring at them.

Rolling his eyes, having dealt with this far too many times, Feuilly took Bahorel’s arm and muttered, “Calm down, Bahorel.”

“I don’t trust those fuckers,” Bahorel growled as he took his seat. “Courf, can you think with something other than your dick once in a while?”

“He’s cute,” Courf shrugged. “Can I help it if men can’t resist me?” he asked, glancing over at Jehan.

Jehan stood up to take his turn. “Which is precisely why we broke up, Courf,” he said, turning on his heel and walking up to the lane, where he bowled a perfect strike. He returned to sit next to Joly, putting his head on Joly’s shoulder and taking his hand, never taking his eyes off Courfeyrac.

Joly looked back and forth between the two men, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. Courf tried to look nonchalant but failed miserably, the look in his eyes turning longing as he glanced at Jehan from the corner of his eye.

“Here, Joly, hold my drink,” Grantaire said, sensing the tension among his friends. “You can even have a sip if you like.”

Joly took a swig, grimacing as the liquid coursed down his throat. “Jesus, R, what is in here? Are you trying to kill me?”

Grantaire didn’t answer, ignoring Enjolras’ look of concern as he grabbed his bowling ball and set himself up to bowl. Enjolras watched him with narrowed eyes, and grabbed the beer from Joly’s hands, taking a swig for himself. Everyone stared at him and he frowned at them. “What?”

Combeferre came up behind him and pried the beer from his hand. “Enjolras, no,” he said quietly.

Enjolras looked at him for a long moment, then quietly went back to his seat, where he watched Grantaire bowl an elegant strike, then continued to stare at him as he walked back to the bar without a word, never looking at Enjolras.

“Well, that was awkward,” Courfeyrac said, breaking the silence.

“No more awkward than you trying to pick up members of the opposing team,” Combeferre pointed out.

“Well, I’m a free man now — right, Jehan?” Courfeyrac said pointedly.

Jehan looked away pointedly and said coolly, “I think the problem was you always thought you were a free man.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes at the old argument. “I thought I explained it. I was out with Bahorel—”

“Don’t blame me, mate,” Bahorel chimed in with a quick glance at Jehan, who thankfully wasn’t looking at him. “I told you to stay away from Eponine — that she was trouble.”

Courfeyrac ignored Bahorel as well, looking at Jehan pleadingly. “How was I to know she’d come around to my flat, looking for me? What did you want me to do?

“Truth is, Courf, it wasn’t the first time,” Jehan said, clasping Joly’s hand even tighter. “And it wasn’t going to be the last.”

“So this is it then?” Courfeyrac said, his voice gaining in volume. “This is how it ends? In a shitty bowling alley, with all our friends here to witness it—” His face was as red as his bowling shirt.

Joly rose from the bench and looked directly into Courfeyrac’s eyes.  “I’m afraid so, Courf.” he said softly. “I’m sorry it all had to happen this way, but—look, Jehan and I are together now, okay?” he said, avoiding Bossuet’s gaze.

Courfeyrac gave Jehan a hard look, then glanced over at the next lane, where the National Guardsman whose number he had in his pocket was walking toward the bar. “Hey, wait up,” Courfeyrac said. “You want to get that drink now?”

“Courf!” Enjolras said sternly, rising to go after him.

“Let him go, Enjolras,” Combeferre said from the scorer’s table. “It’s your turn, by the way.”

Enjolras swallowed hard — then obeyed. He picked up his ball and got into his bowling stance.  He stood there for a long moment, thinking — then rolled the ball down the alley for a strike.

As Enjolras gaped at his feat, wondering if perhaps Combeferre was right about the drinking, his team erupted in cheers. He returned to his team — receiving a pat on the back from Feuilly and an awkward hug from Jehan.

He plunked himself down next to Combeferre. “How’d I do?”

“You did good, man,” Combeferre said, a wry grin on his face. “I’m going to have Grantaire pour you more drinks the next time we do this.”

“The next time?” Enjolras said. “I don’t think—”

Suddenly, they heard Grantaire’s voice over the sounds of the bowling alley as he practically shouted, “Hey - get the fuck off me!”

Enjolras turned to see Grantaire struggling against the National Guardsman he had agreed to go on a date with, trying to twist out of the grip the man had on his arm. Without even realizing it, Enjolras stood, eyes blazing, moving instantly in their direction, his hands clenched into fists, rage boiling under his skin.

Bahorel got there first, his fist connecting with the Guardsman’s jaw and sending him crashing to the ground. Grantaire grabbed Bahorel’s arm, tugging him away from the Guardsman, telling him urgently, “He’s not worth it, man, let it go. I’m fine.”

Shaking Grantaire off, Bahorel shot him a glare and said through clenched teeth, “Let me fucking go, R.” Grantaire held his hands up in defeat and backed away, and Bahorel knelt next to the Guardsman, who was still on the ground, massaging his jaw. “Hey asshole,” said Bahorel conversationally, splaying a hand across the Guardsman’s chest, “you touch my friend again, you come near my friend again, you so much as _look_ at my friend again, and I will beat you until you no longer remember if you serve in the National Guard for America or for France, you understand?”

The National Guardsman’s eyes darted over towards the lane where his companions were still bowling, and Bahorel’s grip on the guy tightened. “I said, do you understand?” he repeated, his voice lowering into a growl.

Nodding, the Guardsman whispered, “I…I understand.”

In the meantime, Enjolras was still hovering at the edge of the lane, torn between wanting to run over and get some punches in while Bahorel still had the bastard out on the floor and wanting to do anything but that. “Enjolras?” Comberre asked, quietly, touching him gently on the arm.

Enjolras looked over at him, chest heaving, and realized he was still clenching his fists, and he slowly released them, revealing crescent-shaped marks from where his fingernails had dug into his skin. His hands were shaking and his eyes were wide, and Combeferre repeated, “Enjolras?”

“I…I’m fine,” said Enjolras, quickly, too quickly for the words to be entirely accurate. His eyes darted back over to where Grantaire stood. “I just…I need to go talk to Grantaire.”

Something in Combeferre’s expression relaxed, and he smiled, just slightly. “That is the most rational thing I’ve heard you say all evening.” He clapped Enjolras on the shoulder, looked over at Grantaire and told Enjolras in undertones, “Go easy on him, alright?”

Nodding slightly, Enjolras strode over to Grantaire. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Am I in trouble?” Grantaire said, only half-joking as he side-eyed him.

Enjolras didn’t answer, instead taking Grantaire by the elbow and propelling him out the back door of the bowling alley to the sidewalk outside.

As soon as they were outside, Enjolras spun Grantaire around and practically shoved him against the building..

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” asked Enjolras, breathing heavily, vaguely aware that he was closer to Grantaire than he intended to be, even though he didn’t have any desire to back away now, especially not with Grantaire looking at him like _that_ , with those eyes and those lips and, fuck, everything. “Were you _trying_ to get yourself hurt, or worse?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire snapped, raising his chin defiantly, eyes hard. “Ignoring the victim-blaming in that question, I was doing a favor for a friend, something you probably wouldn’t know anything about, but I can take care of myself. And besides—” and here Grantaire’s voice dropped off, curling in on itself like a wounded animal “—why do you even care?”

Enjolras looked at him, expression curiously blank, then did the only thing that he could think of to do, surging forward and capturing Grantaire’s lips with his own. Grantaire stood there, shell-shocked, until he reached out, palms on Enjolras’s chest, and shoved him away, as hard as he could. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarled.

"I think I’m kissing you," Enjolras said, stupidly. "Or at least, I was.”

Grantaire shook his head, letting out a frustrated noise that sounded a bit like a growl. “That’s not the point. You can’t just do that instead of talking or explaining things!”

"I wasn’t—" Enjolras started, but Grantaire cut him off, clearly on a roll with his rant.

“You don’t get to just kiss me and think that it answers all my questions, that it magically solves everything! You’ve been acting like an asshole all night, and you…you don’t…for fuck’s sake, Enj, you can’t just kiss me!”

Enjolras was blushing furiously but also staring determinedly at Grantaire. “The kiss _was_ an answer,” he told him, hoping that desperation wasn’t creeping into his voice. “You asked me why I cared and that…that was my answer.”

Grantaire stared back at him. “You care because you want to kiss me?” he asked, his voice dry but also quiet.

“No! I mean, I _do_ , but that’s not—” Enjolras sighed, running his hand through his hair. “I _do_ want to kiss you. But the reason _why_ I want to kiss you is the answer. I care about what happened tonight because I care about you. I care because the thought of you and him made me feel like I had been punched in the stomach, and then when he grabbed you, when he wouldn’t let you go…” He trailed off, his eyes dark. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing Bahorel got there first. I would not have been as generous as stopping at a single punch. I would have ripped him from limb to limb for even _thinking_ of laying a hand on you.”

Enjolras took a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he spoke next, his voice was quiet, gentle even, and filled with something very close to longing. “I care about what happened tonight because I finally realized that you are one of the best things in my life and that if I didn’t do something about it, I could potentially lose you. As a friend or as…as something more. I care because I…I think I like you. And yes, I know I’m an idiot and should have said or done something sooner, but…”

Grantaire made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Say that again,” he commanded in a strained voice, his eyes locked on Enjolras’s.

Frowning, Enjolras asked, “What, that I’m an idiot?”

“No, dumbass,” Grantaire snorted, “though that actually wasn’t a terrible thing to hear you admit twice. The part before that.”

“Oh.” Enjolras blushed and looked down. “Grantaire, I like you. Enough to make me act like a complete asshole all night, enough to make me want to rush to your defense, enough to make me drag you outside the bowling alley so that I could kiss you.”

Grantaire nodded weakly, though he looked a little stunned. “I think there’s a lesson to be learned from this,” he said slowly.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s that?”

“You should really just learn to use your fucking words.”

And then Grantaire was kissing him, arms thrown almost haphazardly around Enjolras’s neck, and Enjolras kissed him back, his hands dropping instantly to Grantaire’s hips, pushing him back against the wall of the bowling alley as his mouth opened against Grantaire’s.

Combeferre opened the door and poked his head outside. “Grantaire, it’s your turn…” The words died on his lips when he saw what was happening and he flushed scarlet. “Right. Um. Never mind. Carry on.”

A few minutes later, Enjolras and Grantaire broke apart, panting. “Did you hear someone say something?” Grantaire asked, chest heaving. “It sounded like Combeferre.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Enjolras practically growled, his pupils blown with want. “Want to get out of here?”

Grantaire laughed and leaned his forehead against Enjolras’s. “We kind of need to be here for the end, to see what we ended up bowling for charity. You were the one who set this whole thing up, basically, so, as much as it pains me to say, we probably need to stay.” Enjolras looked almost crestfallen and Grantaire laughed again, kissing him lightly. “Of course, they probably won’t need us for another ten, fifteen minutes or so, and there’s a lot we can do in fifteen minutes…”

Back inside, Combeferre walked dazedly back to their lane.

“You okay, Ferre?” Feuilly asked.

Combeferre hesitated for a moment. “I, um—saw Enjolras and Grantaire—together? Outside?” He could feel his face getting warm.

“Together together?” Joly asked.

“It would seem so,” Combeferre said.

“Were they—” Feuilly prompted.

“No, no,” Combeferre said quickly. “But it was pretty hot and heavy.”

“Well done, Taire,” Jehan said with a laugh.

Combeferre cleared his throat and peered at the score sheet. “So I don’t think they’re coming back, and  Courf is clearly indisposed,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the bar.

“So we’re fucked?” Bahorel asked, still rubbing his knuckles from punching the Guardsman.

“Not necessarily,” Combeferre said. “If Jehan can bowl three strikes in a row, we can win.”

Jehan stood up and brushed his hands on his plaid trousers. “No problem,” he said.

He walked up to the lane, picked up his ball and spun it down the alley for a graceful strike. He grabbed his ball quickly once it came back from the ball return, and made another strike.

“One more, Jehan,” Joly said to him. “You can do it.”

Jehan looked back at him and blew him a kiss — then turned on his heel, picked up his ball, and rolled the ball down the alley. The ball was slightly off, and knocked down nine of the 10 pins, leaving the 10 pin wobbling.

“Come on — fall, you fucking piece of shit!” Jehan yelled.

And with that, it fell.

The remnants of his team descended on Jehan. Feuilly and Bossuet patted him on the back, and Marius offered an awkward congratulations. Bahorel started taunting the National Guardsman, shouting “suck it, assholes” at the top of his lungs, while Combeferre shook Jehan’s  hand, saying, “You did good, Prouvaire.”

Joly was the last to reach Jehan, and embraced him lovingly. “You’re amazing, Jehan,” he told him, grinning widely as he leaned down and kissed him long and hard, ignoring the rest of the group.

“Let’s go celebrate, Jollly,” Jehan said when they came up for air grinning as well.

Joly grinned. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “After I get these gross rental shoes off — yuck. I think I’ve developed an infection on my right foot already,” he said, reaching down to scratch his ankle.

“I’m sure you’re fine, Joly,” Jehan said. “I’ll examine you myself when we get home,” he said with a leer, as they sat beside each other to change into their own shoes..

"So—someone should go tell Enjolras and Grantaire we won," Combeferre mentioned offhandedly, clearing not willing to do it himself.

Bossuet, who had been getting a soda when Combeferre had relayed the story of what he had witnessed outside the bowling alley, volunteered, “I’ll do it. They’re outside behind the alley, right?”

"Right," said Jehan cheerfully after exchanging a glance with Joly, who looked torn between laughter and stopping Bossuet.

Instead, all of Les Amis watched as Bossuet strolled toward the back door, opening it to walk outside and say, “Hey guys, guess what - we—” before letting out an unholy shriek and slamming the door, leaning against it, face and bald head beet red. “Really, guys?” he called in a strangled voice. “Really?!”

Outside, Enjolras was zipping his pants up as Grantaire stood, grinning wickedly. “I think we won,” Grantaire murmured, leaning in to kiss Enjolras, who groaned and kissed him back.

“Honestly?” Enjolras said, kissing him again, pulling their hips flush. “I don’t particularly give a fuck.”

Grantaire laughed against his lips. “I’m a terrible influence on you,” he told him, sounding more delighted than anything. “But we should still go back inside.”

Sighing, Enjolras kissed him once more. “Fine, but then I’m taking you back to mine and reciprocating the favor.”

“Good enough for me,” said Grantaire, still sounding delighted. They laced their fingers together and walked back into the bowling alley together (and the applause and cheers they received from their teammates rivaled the cheers they had given Jehan upon winning, much to the confusion of every other team in the place).


End file.
